


automatic - prince

by myfunny_valentine



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abuse, Altered Mental States, Angst, Delusions, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mental Health Issues, Physical Abuse, Surreal, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:49:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24368374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myfunny_valentine/pseuds/myfunny_valentine
Summary: "He almost teared up and got shorn, the gaunt heartbreak of their physical affection being demolished being so very everlasting and evergreen to the cyberpunk covering in sheepish wool. He stares as the alien let out prosecuting lines of hazed out gibberish, bleary blank eyes witnessing the sardonic dread pour out of dizzy lips."
Kudos: 1





	automatic - prince

Eggs over easy. Eggs over easy. Mystical flourishes of phantasmagoria irises comprised of the most precision inclined hue, one so akin to the sojourn of a hideous cloak of sardonic nightfall radiate and magnetize to the sight of something floored with a pumpkin sunset tone, the asymmetric shape like a piece of astronaut jerky, enticing those fluorographic smears of black terraces to gaze wistfully at such an object. Then something pale began to slither towards the ignorant abstraction and the envy of the Gods above felt an acute, creeping dread begin to claw at internal wiring, dazzling all those arrays of metastatic islands of internal motherboards and hard-drives in a coat of a diluted, dashing crimson, a framework of misogynistic red that drenched the linear movements of an anomaly. That pale thing, slender as contemptuous specimen of Phasmatodea, grabs the small thing, exotic hue radiating a sort of tumultuous toxicity, and crushes it. The small thing doesn't have time to let out a whimper or scream or plead or even a gentle, hazey whisper, crude and cynical, drenched in cantankerous clairvoyance. "Don't kill me," it would've said. "Don't kill me." He feels his heart twist sporadically and seize with a floutingly, fleeing, withering sensation bedazzling the back of his terramorphed membrane. The alien or perhaps disfigured cybernetic advancement stares with a vivid dissonance at the blaring, fermented dust of corpse-esque, flauntatious, toxicology of colour in his hand. His eyes see through his hand. He let in an affluent inhale, absorbing particles that were a rather quaint slaw of nitrogen and the works, his automatic response being fraudulently therapeutic and distantly placating. Then he raised his predatory gaze, the one so filled with crippling void, white noise, and blank that it became a ravenous black hole. He spots a grangly, spontaneous, sanctimonious alien, one with angry beads of stringing liquorice for eyes with a crown of curls accompanying it's big, liquefied head. It begins to speak and he stares, densely titillated, as an alphabet street spills out of surgical, foamed up lips. His ears ring and he is hunched, ears straining to string together whatever mess of knotted thread is dispelling from the alien's personified, eccentric lips. "..little brat.. understand.. understand, understand, understand..? Stupid brat.. cadet.. understand?" he nods. He understands perfectly. The reality that he does not speak the same tongue as the intergalactic invader. This happens a lot and he excuses it quite often as a simple dissonance caused by an acute case of an assortment of miscommunications and language barriers. Everytime his aliens trilled and screamed shrilly, he just nodded. Nod and nod and nod. Eggs over easy. The alien's face twists and he feels his mousy hair tug beyond him, dull exuberance transcending beyond physical, the feeling of his knotted locks interlocking with the cold-blooded, feverish metacarpal of the being was an innocuous comfort that was meddled to have a glamorous shade draped over it. "Understand? Understand? Understand?" it spat. He nodded, paused, then shook his head. It let go. He almost teared up and got shorn, the gaunt heartbreak of their physical affection being demolished being so very everlasting and evergreen to the cyberpunk covering in sheepish wool. He stares as the alien let out prosecuting lines of hazed out gibberish, bleary blank eyes witnessing the sardonic dread pour out of dizzy lips. Then he thought a brilliant idea. If he made the alien mad, it would shoot him with his raygun and he would be sent to his godly husband as compensation for his intergalactic secrets and currency. His eyes wander as per usual. He grabs a large UFO, one that was sheer pearlescent in its telltale abundance of colour putty into one single hue. White. The alien is incredulous. Eggs over easy. Eggs over easy. He slams the ceramic ship as hard as he can into the floor and the alien thrills in a diseloped flurry of trembling wrath. He doesn't quite get it. That ship wasn't big enough to fly in. Why did it matter? Why did it matter more than him? His ratty hair gets pulled once more and he scrunched his nose as the aromatic stench of it's galactic breath wafts into his rabbit nose. It kept speaking gibberish. Pretty's mom slams his head into the table. Pretty smiles. Pretty's mom continues.


End file.
